looked at her face, still pale, and with traces of the pinched look it got when she was unwell.
“No, I don’t think you should try to do too much. You’ll just get sick again. I wonder, though, if it might be a help if you could spend part of the day sitting with Susannah. It might save Daniel some steps if he doesn’t have to run back and forth, and she’s sure to be happier with a woman there to see to her needs.”
“Of course.”
“And Martha can lend a hand. She’s old enough to run errands and do a little sweeping.”
He had to laugh a little at the look on Betsy’s face. The little girl was quite willing to turn her hand to whatever she was asked to do, and he knew that she was a real help to Betsy when he wasn’t there, but when he was at home he often stopped her in mid-task and sent her out to play instead. “They grow up too fast as it is,” was his reply when Betsy protested. “Let her be a little girl.”
He knew this was spoiling her, but he couldn’t help himself. Her mother had been his favourite child, and her premature death at the hands of a murderer had nearly destroyed him. That he himself had brought the murderer to justice had allowed him to close the door on his mourning, but the fact that the killer had nearly taken Martha as well was almost more than he could bear to think about, and it coloured his dealings with his granddaughter.
Betsy and Martha walked across the yard to the hotel with him. The warmer temperatures and the bright sunlight had softened much of the ice. The patches of roadway that had seen the heaviest morning traffic had cleared entirely. By picking their way carefully, they could find secure footing. Even so, Lewis kept a firm grip on Betsy’s arm and Betsy on Martha’s.
Daniel looked relieved when they arrived, as did Susannah when she realized that Betsy would be there to keep her company. “Yes, yes, much the best solution,” she said.
Martha was sent to the bakery to fetch some bread for the evening meal. Supper was always a much simpler affair than dinner, with the leftovers from the noon meal serving as the main course, rounded out with a good soup and a pudding; except that today there were no leftovers from the poor meal they had served up at noon. There were, however, two apple pies that Susannah had prepared that morning, which only needed to go into the oven. That would do for dessert, and they could put some cheese with each slice, as well.
Surely, Lewis thought, he and Daniel could manage to fry some chops and potatoes and boil up some carrots or turnip. With a generous serving of bakery bread and a selection of the pickled vegetables that Susannah had done down that fall, it would be an adequate menu for a supper. It’s better than what I gave them for dinner, anyway, Lewis thought. He resigned himself to the fact that in the next few weeks he would undoubtedly be forced to learn far more about what went on in a kitchen than he had ever wanted to know.
Chapter Six
The following day was a Sunday and Betsy helped them spit a nice piece of beef for dinner. Then she and Lewis and Martha walked to the Methodist meeting, leaving Daniel with strict instructions regarding the importance of frequent basting.
The Elliotts had retired to their rooms after breakfast and had not re-emerged since, which surprised Lewis a little. Clementine had gone to great pains to acquaint herself with the inhabitants of the village, and Lewis had assumed that she would consolidate this beachhead by making an appearance at one of the Sunday services. Perhaps there was no church of her persuasion here, although there were plenty enough to choose from — his own Methodists, the Presbyterians, the Anglicans, and even the Roman Catholics, who presided over not only a church but a boarding school that housed nearly a hundred students.
This school existed largely due to the efforts of one Archibald McFaul. McFaul had arrived from Ireland as a penniless boy and through intelligence and industry, had risen to become one of the most successful businessmen in Wellington and a leader in the community. His success had been shouted to the world when he built a large brick house on a knoll overlooking the lake. It was an extraordinary building, grandly constructed with stone lintels, four large chimneys, and elegant French doors that graced the façade. McFaul had dubbed it “Tara Hall” in honour of his Irish origins.
It was McFaul who was in a large part responsible for the lively Catholic presence in Wellington. As soon as he had been able to afford it, he had fetched a priest from Ireland to establish a church and a school. And then, a few short years later, he turned his graceful house over to the priests. There were differing motives ascribed to this astounding gift — some said it was McFaul’s sense of piety that was responsible. Others claimed that his extensive enterprises, in particular his far-flung shipping business, had suffered heavy losses and that he could no longer afford to maintain the massive home. Whatever the reason, the gesture had only elevated McFaul’s status within the community. The church elected to use Tara Hall as a boarding school, and soon Catholic families across the province were sending their offspring, boys and girls alike, to be educated in Wellington. On Sundays, these pupils traipsed along to the wooden church that had been built behind the school.
If Lewis had been forced to guess, he might have expected Mrs. Elliott to attend this church. For some reason he had a vague notion that there were many Catholics in the southern states. But there were many other denominations, as well, and he supposed it wouldn’t be surprising if Mrs. Elliott belonged to one that was peculiar to that part of the country, and therefore declined to attend services here.
It was not really any of his business what the hotel guests did, he reminded himself. The Elliotts could honour the day in any way they thought fitting.
When Lewis and his family arrived at the Methodist meeting house there was a knot of people on the sidewalk passing the time of day before they went in. All of the conversation was about the ice storm and the damage that had been done. Of particular interest was the fate of the missing Anthea.
“We can only hope they read the weather signs before they left Oswego,” said Alonzo Jones, who had fished the waters of Lake Ontario nearly all his life. “If they were out in the lake, they’d have been in trouble with all that ice on their sails. Their only chance would be to steer for Main Duck.”
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